VIII

THE ARREST

They gained the corner of Great Jones Street—­one
of those dim byways of trade that branch off from
the radiant avenues. As they turned in the street,
they met a bitter wind that was blowing the pavement
clean as polished glass, and the dark and closing
day was set off sharply by the intense lamps and shop-lights.
Here and there at a window a clerk pressed his face
against the cold pane and looked down into the cheerless
twilight, and many toilers made the hard pavement echo
with their fast steps as they hurried homeward.

“There they are,” said Rhona.

Two girls, both placarded, came up to them. One
of them, a thin little skeleton, pitiably ragged in
dress, with hollow eyes and white face, was coughing
in the cuff of the wind. She was plainly a consumptive—­a
little wisp of a girl. She spoke brokenly, with
a strong Russian accent.

“It’s good to see you yet, Rhona.
I get so cold my bones ready to crack.”

She shivered and coughed. Rhona spoke softly.

“Fannie, you go right home, and let your mother
give you a good drink of hot lemonade with whiskey
in it. And take a foot-bath, too.”

Fannie coughed again.

“Don’t you tell me, Rhona. Look out
for yourself. There gets trouble yet on this
street.”

Myra drew nearer, a dull feeling in her breast.
Rhona spoke easily:

“None of the men said anything or did anything,
did they?”

“Well, they say things; they make angry faces,
and big fists, Rhona. Better be careful.”

“Where are they?”

“By Zandler’s doorway. They get afraid
of the cold.”

Rhona laughed softly, and put an arm about the frail
body.

“Now you run home, and don’t worry about
me! I can take care of myself. I expect
another girl, anyway.”

“Good-night, Rhona.”

“Good-night—­get to bed, and don’t
forget the hot lemonade!”

The two girls departed, blowing, as it were, about
the corner and out of sight. Rhona turned to
Myra, whose face was pallid.

“Hadn’t you better go back, Miss Craig?
You see, I’m used to these things.”

“No,” said Myra, in a low voice.
“I’ve come to stay.”

She was thinking of tiny Fannie. What! Could
she not measure to a little consumptive Russian?

“All right,” said Rhona. “Let’s
begin!”

They started to walk quietly up and down before the
darkened loft building—­up fifty yards,
down fifty yards. A stout policeman slouched
under a street-lamp, swinging his club with a heavily
gloved hand, and in the shadow of the loft-building
entrance Rhona pointed out to Myra several ill-looking
private detectives who danced up and down on their
toes, blew their hands, smoked cigarettes, and kept
tab of the time.